


you have (1) new message

by ImmodestMussorgsky



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Creepy Phonecalls, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Eventual Smut, F/M, Kinda, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Paranoia, Psychological Torture, Serial Killers, Slow Burn, Stalking, and voicemails, not in the entity's realm, reader also does not take very good care of herself :(, reader medicated for unspecified mental illness, real life danny, takes place in Philadelphia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28688007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImmodestMussorgsky/pseuds/ImmodestMussorgsky
Summary: The voice that erupts through your speaker is unfamiliar, smooth, low. All you can discern is that it’s a male voice, its tone almost perversely cloying.“I was hoping you’d pick up.” A long inhale, a long exhale. “You seem a little lonely. Breakfast for dinner… cute.”Ice cold horror washes over you and you can barely move your fingers to hang up. This has to be some kind of joke. Some stupid kid getting really, really lucky with their prank call.But a question still sears into your thoughts:Who would have known what you were doing?That you were alone in your apartment?
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Reader, Danny “Jed Olsen” Johnson | The Ghost Face & Reader
Comments: 103
Kudos: 277





	1. the first call

**Author's Note:**

> I had a really big idea for some stalky stalky Ghostface/Danny action. Many more chapters to come.

_“I don’t believe in you!”_

_“I believe in you…”_

You can’t help but snort, bursting into a fresh round of giggles. The dialogue in Nightmare on Elm Street is absolutely _diabolical_ \-- you struggle to figure out how anybody could consider this a horror movie. But hey… meteoric fame is hard to come by. It’s a cult classic for a reason. 

You’d usually be marathoning classic slasher flicks with your roommate, Chloe, but she’s on a month-long Hawaii dream vacation with her new boyfriend. What happened to _bros before hoes_? But his wealth is apparently abundant enough to fund weeks of paradise beachside living, so good for her for getting that bread. And anyway, you’re content to sit alone in your little mousehole apartment and melt into the couch after work with a family-size bag of salt & vinegar chips under your arm. 

You watch the flickering screen with mild interest as you chomp down another handful of chips. Freddy Krueger is definitely failing to get you on the edge of your seat. Wiping your hand on your sweatpants, you pick up the remote and turn the movie off. 

“Nightmare, my ass.” you mutter under your breath.

As much as you’d like to, eating nothing but salt and vinegar chips for dinner seems like a great way to end up with an upset stomach and a lot of regret later tonight. The pantry is well stocked with _Chloe’s_ foods of choice-- organic steel-cut rolled oats, a billion different kinds of nuts and seeds all in cute little labeled mason jars, gluten free bread, a mockery of cheese puffs ( _chickpea_ puffs? Come on!). Your side is a library of boxed or canned foods in stark contrast: a couple opened boxes of Pop-Tarts, a few boxes of Kraft mac & cheese, a family sized box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and, the only thing not in a box: another bag of salt & vinegar chips. 

The fridge tells a similar story. Chloe’s avocados, farmer’s market tomatoes, and thick stalks of celery gleam in the vegetable drawer. She’s consumed half the shelf space with just kombucha and a few swanky craft beers. And bottles of oat milk, or soy milk, or some kind of thing pretending to be milk. You actually don’t have much in the fridge besides leftover Indian food from your favorite place downtown and a gallon of milk for your cereal, so you don’t mind her hogging more space. 

Muffy, Chloe’s ragdoll cat, stalks into the kitchen with you and gives you a tiny yowl. You lean down and give her an affectionate scratch behind the ears. 

“Scram, Muffy.” you murmur to her. “I’ve already fed you.” 

She stares up at you with a look that can only mean _“and you’ll feed me more.”_

She stalks back into the living room, fluffy beige tail disappearing behind the wall in a flick and a wave. You tie your hair back and yawn. What’s on the menu for dinner tonight? 

Before you can think too much about eating, you remember that Chloe left you a voicemail before she took off. You fish your phone from your pocket and open your voicemail, tapping your toe against the linoleum floor as the dial tone plays. 

_You have one new message,_ chirps the robot voice of your mailbox. 

_“Hey girl. I’m boarding soon, so you probably won’t hear from me for a while. Make sure you feed Muffy, water the plants…”_ she clicks her tongue a few times, _“take your meds, and don’t lay in bed for too long on the weekends. You know how that tanks your mood.”_

Chloe might be a total hipster health nut, but it doesn’t make it any less sweet that she frets over you so much. You break into a smile and make a mental note to call her back. 

_“And. You can eat anything perishable of mine in the fridge or pantry while I’m gone. I doubt the bread or the veggies are gonna last long… you need to eat healthier anyway. No potato chips for dinner.”_

Your smile grows. She knows you so well. 

_“I gotta go, but I’ll send you tons of pictures when I get there. Bye, babe.”_

You hang up and set your phone down on the counter. Eyeing the bland looking loaf of brown bread, you decide you’ll have breakfast _a la Chloe_ for dinner. 

You toss the loaf onto the counter, then stalk to the fridge. The avocados seem pretty ripe. Tomatoes, too. You pick out one of each, then pluck a couple eggs from the carton you two share and set it all on the counter. Avocado toast with scrambled eggs doesn't sound too bad. 

You gut the avocado, tossing its pit in the trash and scooping its innards out into a bowl. The fork makes quick work of it, turning it into a mound of mild green paste. Salt, pepper. Done. 

Hey, if Chloe let you eat her food, she’s bound to not mind that you’re using her nice kitchen knives too, right? You cut a few slices of tomato and grimace at its gelatinous, glistening center. You never liked tomatoes much, but she’s kinda right-- you do need to improve your diet. 

Before long, you’ve got a nice thick slice of toast slathered in avocado and garnished with ripe red tomato sitting next to a steaming pile of scrambled eggs. This may not be your beloved salt & vinegar chips, but it sure looks delicious. 

You snap a photo of your meal and text it to her. _Am I healthy yet?_ you type, with a grin on your face. 

Muffy stalks up to you, looking up expectantly. You sigh and toss her a morsel of scrambled egg. “That’s all you’re getting, you little twerp.” you admonish through a mouthful of toast. It’s not… delicious, but it’s not bad for some mushed up vegetable on top of an excuse for bread. You curse yourself for not adding some cheese to your scrambled eggs. That would’ve _really_ been delicious. 

You’d usually be scrolling through your social media right now, but something inspires you to look longingly out the window of the kitchen. The sky is a starless, inky black, obscuring everything except for whatever is illuminated by the weak orange streetlights. Usually there would be more traffic or drunk yelling-- you and Chloe didn’t exactly get lucky with the placement of your unit-- but tonight it’s eerily silent. That’s perfectly welcome to you, though. It’s much better than cranking up the volume of your music to drown out whatever street fight is occurring three floors below you. 

Suddenly, your musing and its silence is broken by the sound of your ringtone. It’s half past midnight… who in their right mind would be calling you right now? 

Unknown number. You frown and let it go to voicemail. Probably just some spam caller. 

You finish your dinner and sit there in the silence, then check your phone again. You can’t help but be curious as to what message they’ve left you. Gingerly, you open your voice mailbox again and listen dispassionately to the dial tone and the little robot voice. 

_You have one new message and one old message._

The voice that erupts through your speaker is unfamiliar, smooth, low. All you can discern is that it’s a male voice, its tone almost perversely cloying. 

_“I was hoping you’d pick up.”_ A long inhale, a long exhale. _“You seem a little lonely. Breakfast for dinner… cute.”_

Ice cold horror washes over you and you can barely move your fingers to hang up. This has to be some kind of joke. Some stupid kid getting _really, really_ lucky with their prank call. 

But a question still sears into your thoughts:

Who would have known what you were doing? 

That you were alone in your apartment? 

Maybe, just maybe, by some insane stretch of the imagination, Chloe’s new boyfriend got ahold of her phone, saw your text, and decided to pull some prank. Yeah, that sounds about right. That’s the _only_ situation that makes sense, unless… 

Somebody is watching you. 

You nearly jump out of your seat as the phone rings again. Unknown number. Your hands tremble over it as your panicked brain deliberates picking it up. Before you can think about it any more, you’ve snatched it into a sweaty palm and brought it up to your ear. 

  
  


“Chloe, this isn’t fucking funny. Cut it out.” you try to sound intimidating, but your voice trembles in just the wrong way with each word. 

“You picked up.” the voice breathes, and you swear you can _hear_ a sinister smile creep onto whoever’s face it belongs to. “You must really be lonely.” 

“I said _stop, Chlo_ \--”

_“My name’s not Chloe.”_ he snarls, and your empty threat dies in your throat immediately. Then, as if nothing had happened at all, his voice slips back into that relaxed, amused tone. “But I do wish I were spending a month in Hawaii right now. Lucky girl, isn’t she?” 

Another pang of fear hits you like a brick. You swallow hard, biting your lip. “Whoever you are, leave me alone. Or I’ll… I’ll call the cops.” 

“What exactly are you going to tell them, sweetheart? That some _big mean boogeyman_ is leaving scary messages on your phone?” he lets out a mocking laugh. “They’ll send their best officers, I’m sure.”

“Leave me alone.” is all you manage to say, breathless and trembling, before you force yourself to hang up and practically slam your phone down onto the counter. Muffy jumps and cocks her head at you. You force yourself to break out of your panicked stupor and hurry over to the kitchen window, glancing frantically to the left and right of it. If somebody were on the fire escape, you surely would have heard it. 

At least, that’s what you tell yourself. 

You yank those curtains shut, then the curtains on the living room window, then finally the ones in your bedroom. You remember Chloe locking and shutting her windows, so there’s no need to check in there. Something tells you to anyway.

You creep to her doorway, palms sweaty. _There’s probably nothing to see in there,_ you think to yourself, _the curtains were already shut._

Looking into her room, your stomach drops. 

The curtains are tucked neatly to the side, and her window is cranked all the way open, letting in the cool night air and the sounds of the streets. You nearly choke in horror and rush over to shut the window, making sure the lock is tightly down before throwing the curtains back over them. You must have just misremembered. She probably left the window open to let some fresh air in, or something.

_But she never leaves her window open, or Muffy would get out_ , you realize. 

_“Oh my God.”_ you gasp to yourself, before you sprint to the kitchen and grab the biggest, meanest looking knife in the drawer, as well as your phone. Muffy meows at you curiously, then yelps in indignance as you swiftly scoop her up by the stomach and fly to your room. 

“Sorry.” you mutter as you practically _toss_ her onto your bed, then lock your door. It’s a pathetic, flimsy mechanism, and could probably be picked with a fork, but it’s better than _nothing_. You pause, surveying the room for any heavy objects, and settle on jamming your full laundry hamper under the doorknob. At least this way you’ll hear any intruder before they make it into your room. The knife you tuck under your pillow as you scramble under your covers and turn your lamp off. 

Your hands shake as you dial Chloe’s number. The phone rings once, twice, then goes straight to voicemail.

“Hey, Chlo,” you say shakily. “Uhm, I got some really weird calls from somebody tonight and I think our apartment might have been broken into. Or something. Uh,” you swallow hard, “Muffy and I are locked up in my room right now and I have a knife. I could be just imagining things, but if you don’t hear from me for a while, I probably got murdered or something.”

God, you sound so _stupid_ right now, but it’s the best you can muster when your thoughts are racing at a million miles an hour. 

“I’ll call you when I wake up tomorrow. Bye.” 

You plug your phone in and set it on your nightstand, shrinking down underneath your duvet. Nothing is visible in your room, even as your eyes adjust to the darkness, except for the glow of the hall light you left on under your door. 

It’s going to be a long night. 


	2. out of your mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wake up the morning after the incident and try to soothe your nerves.

A shadow slips into the narrow bar of light under your door and you hear your doorknob jiggling. You’re paralyzed with fear, but manage to get ahold of your knife in your damp palm and scramble out of bed. Muffy meows and you hiss at her to be quiet. 

The jiggling and rattling of the cheap lock grows more and more vigorous, until you finally hear it snap with a _pop_ and the door swings open. 

A figure stands there, shrouded in darkness, the only visible part of it the glint of the hunting knife in its right hand. It’s tall, hooded. You can barely do anything except for stare, terrified. 

_Fucking move,_ you scream at yourself in your head, _run out the door. Stab him, for God’s sake._

But before you can spur yourself into action, the figure lunges. You scream, raising your hands to protect yourself, the knife in your hand an afterthought…

Your eyes snap open and your heart is pumping so hard you can hear it thudding in your ears. The duvet you brought up to your chin in fear has now wrapped around your sweaty face, and you’re practically being smothered by your own damp blanket. The sleep you entered last night was fitful at best, but you feel more awake than ever.

Muffy has hopped off the bed and is standing just in front of the door, meowing impatiently. 

“Hold on, girl.” you groan, rubbing your eyes. “Give me a minute.” 

You scrabble for your phone on your nightstand and squint at its bright display. The black text on the notification bar sends a chill down your spine.

_1 new voicemail._ From 4 this morning.

It’s probably Chloe-- in fact, you _know_ it’s Chloe, from the number listed next to the notification, but you feel a pit open up in your stomach as you unlock it and check. The phone rings, you drum your fingers impatiently against your thigh. Dial tone. Robot voice. 

_“Holy shit, babe, you okay? I’m sorry I didn’t call back sooner, our layover was really short--”_

A deep male voice, presumably her new boyfriend, interrupts her mid-sentence with a question that you think you can make out as _bottomless margaritas?_

“Shut up.” you huff, before Chloe continues. 

_“Alex, give me a moment.”_ She sounds exasperated. You don’t blame her. 

_“Uh, fuck, okay. Make sure you take the spare key inside. Lock all of the windows. I don’t know if you’ve already called the cops, but uh… that wouldn’t be a bad idea. Call me back as soon as you wake up, okay? I’ll make sure to pick up.”_

You swing your feet out of the bed and cast your duvet aside. Shafts of daylight stream in through the cracks in your curtains. You move to open them before that same pang of foreboding hits you in the chest, and your hands drop to your side. It’s probably not the best idea to open them… at least, not right now. Muffy is _still_ complaining, so you nudge her out of the way with your foot, shove the laundry hamper out of the way, and swing your door open. 

Nothing there. _Nobody_ there. 

The hallway light is still on, and, from the looks of it, you’ve had no unwelcome visitors. A long sigh leaves your lungs. Maybe this all was just a big hoopla, a paranoid idea your sleep-deprived brain took too far. It would probably be best to call Chloe back, though. 

You scratch your nose as the phone rings. She picks up in five seconds. 

“Hello? Oh my God, you’re alive.” It’s more relieving than you expected to finally hear her voice live. 

“Yeah,” you say blearily. “Unfortunately.” 

“Don’t say that.” she scolds. You hear tropical ambiance in the background-- waves crashing, what you imagine as a warm breeze ruffling her beach blonde hair, people sipping sweet boozy cocktails, _Alex_ probably tanning his immaculate abs in the beach chair next to her--

You squeeze your eyes shut and bite your cheek. You’re not sure if you miss her or just miss not being so _alone_.

“Call the cops. Please, babe. Get some mace or something.” 

“It was probably nothing. I’m sorry I called last night and freaked you out.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Hey, if you’re busy right now, I don’t wanna bother you.” 

“No! No, really. Alex and I are just chilling on the beach right now. I don’t mind talking at all.” 

“I’ll be fine, Chlo,” you say, forcing a smile onto your face. “I’m probably just gonna pop a klonopin and go for a walk. I was just really sleepy last night and got scared over an open window.” 

“I-- okay. If you say so.” Chloe sighs in defeat. “Don’t take too much. Call me if anything else happens.” 

“I will. Thanks for worrying. I’ll be fine, really.” you say quickly. “Bye.” 

You hang up before you hear her say goodbye, slipping your phone back into your pocket. 

“Okay.” you breathe to yourself. “Enough of this paranoid shit. Nothing happened. It was just some stupid prank.” 

As much as you’re trying to convince yourself, a part of you deep down knows you’re lying. 

Nevertheless, you busy yourself with getting ready for the day. It’s already noon on a Sunday, and you’re still clad in your Hello Kitty pajama bottoms and oversized Nirvana t-shirt you got on sale at a Hot Topic ages ago. Nowadays you’d never be caught _dead_ shopping in there, but hey, a five dollar t-shirt is a five dollar t-shirt. 

The first stop is the bathroom, where you fish your friendly orange pill bottles out of your medicine cabinet and rattle them around in your hands. Some stuff you think is called a mood stabilizer, your requisite dose of antidepressant, and the vitamins you take to feel healthy, of course. The list is long. Vitamin D, a women’s multivitamin that smells like horse shit (literally, but Chloe wants you to take it so bad she gives it to you for free), big glassy tablets of fish oil, maca capsules (another Chloe supplement-- she says it’ll help your mood _and_ make you horny as a bonus), vitamin B12. You break out the Klonopin today, fishing out the tiny blue tablet from its plastic housing and breaking it half. 

It sits there in your palm and looks so _small_ compared to all of the other pills. 

Fuck it. You shrug and add both halves to the mix. You’ll just feel a little drowsier today is all, and besides, after the mini heart attack you had last night, you really need it. 

Breakfast number one is a little family of pills you swallow four at a time. You take so many things that _purportedly_ help you stay sane that you’re not even sure which ones are doing the job. All you know is that you generally spend your days mildly fatigued, mostly unmotivated, but generally functional. It’s all you and your psychiatrist can really hope for, right? 

Once they’re all down the hatch, you splash your face with cold water a few times and stare at yourself in the mirror. Dark raccoon rings that seem twice as prominent today undercut your bleary eyes. Your hair is a rat’s nest. You can’t be bothered to drag a brush through right now, so you tie it up in a barely passably neat bun above your ears. Your lips are chapped and bitten, your cheeks rosy from the cool water, your skin paler than usual. You look _afraid_. 

Shaking yourself from your thoughts, you walk to the kitchen and fix yourself a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Muffy’s kibble you pour into her tiny glass dish, giving her little white head a pat as she finally stops following you around to eat. You know this stuff is going to give you a mad carb and sugar crash later, but you figure you’ll just head to bed early anyway. You turn the TV on and flick idly through the channels, before a newscaster’s grave voice catches your attention. 

_“Another homicide victim was discovered last night in the idyllic neighborhood of Chestnut Hill. Police suspect this is the work of the Ghostface Killer, who still remains at large.”_

The face of the woman murdered in cold blood flashes on the screen. She’s beautiful. Young, dark haired, perfect straight white smile. She’s posed with her dog in one image, with her family in another. 

_“The victim, twenty-four year old Esme Reed, was an NICU nurse, as well as an aspiring musician. Local authorities are encouraging all viewers to call if they have any tips regarding the identity or whereabouts of the suspect.”_

A phone number appears in the center of the screen. 

You shiver. You know that your neighborhood isn’t exactly the picture of peaceful suburban family life, so it doesn’t surprise you when there’s a news report every now and again of a shooting or stabbing. But Chestnut Hill is _old money_ , rich retirees and flashy real estate. There are probably more million-dollar houses with video surveillance there than anywhere else. If the Ghostface Killer can target that side of Philly and somehow slip away without a trace… well, he must be really good at what he does. 

The rest of the sugary, cinnamon-y milk disappears down your gullet and you set the empty bowl in the sink. You only realize how dim it is in the living room when you glance at the window and squint at the bright morning light trying its hardest to break through the curtains. 

This is stupid. Creeping around your apartment in the dark like a goblin is stupid. _Get out of your fucking head_ , you think, walking boldly up to the window and tearing it open. The sunlight hits your eyes and you shrink away like Gollum in his cave. 

There. There’s nothing wrong or dangerous about it. 

And now you’re only walking out to the front door to get the key from under the mat because Chloe told you to. Not because you’re scared. 

It stares up at you, a dirty grey _WELCOME_ in stark relief from faded brown shag. You peel the corner of the mat up from the ground, then the rest of it, searching the concrete frantically for the little brass key you and Chloe have kept under there for years now. With slow horror you realize that it is nowhere to be found, even as you flip the mat completely over and toss it across the hall. 

You fumble for your phone and type out a message furiously: 

_There’s no key under the mat_

_Are you sure you didn’t take it?_

It’s not long before Chloe responds.

  
  


_yeah, i brought mine with me_

_call the cops. i’m serious dude_

_this doesn’t seem safe_

_I will_

  
  
  


Another cold sweat is breaking out on your forehead. You toss the mat haphazardly back into its place and dart back behind the door, dialing the non-emergency line. It rings for what feels like forever before an operator picks up and asks, in a soft, disinterested voice:

“You’ve reached the Philadelphia Police Department non-emergency line. What can I help you with?” 

“Hi. Uh, I think somebody broke into my apartment last night. My spare key is also missing from where it usually is.” 

“Okay,” she says mildly, and for a moment you’re worried she won’t believe you. “When did it happen and what exactly happened?”

“I got a few strange phone calls when I was making dinner last night. They might have been prank calls, but the person on the other end was describing exactly what I was doing…”

“Mhm.” 

“So I went and checked all the windows and the door, and the window in my roommate’s room was wide open. And I’m pretty sure she closed it before she left, so somebody might have-- opened it?” You cringe at how unsure you sound. You don’t even sound like you believe _yourself_. 

“Where is your roommate?” 

“She’s, um, out of town.” 

“Right. Well, I can send an officer to survey the area.” 

“Please. That’d be great.” 

“If I could have your address, please?” 

  
  


✦✦✦

“So you don’t remember this window being open prior to those phone calls?” Officer Jamison, as he introduced himself, who showed up at your door five minutes ago, stands in the center of Chloe’s room with a clipboard. 

She _did_ clean up before she left, but her room is such a plant-filled bohemian flea-market-art sanctuary that it maintains the illusion of being perpetually cluttered. He looks out of place here, all crisp and blue in his uniform and slacks, his badge glinting in the sunlight. If there _was_ an intruder, they managed to slip down from her window and over her shelf of succulents without knocking a single thing over, but there’s so much crap on the floor that they may as well have and you probably wouldn’t notice. You hope Jamison is less skeptical of this situation than you are. 

He ambles towards the window, studying the latch and the crank that pushes it open. The cerulean of his rubber gloves is in stark contrast with the chipping white paint of the windowsill. He scans it, jots down a few notes, and rubs his chin. 

“There doesn’t look to be anything of interest here, ma’am.” he says, turning back towards you.

“You’re-- you’re not gonna take fingerprints or anything?” you stammer, hoping you don’t sound terribly naive. 

“Well, generally, we’d do a more thorough investigation if there was _confirmed_ entry. But I don’t see much of a disturbance here.” He eyes you with what looks like a cross between skepticism and pity, and you’re suddenly all too aware of how you must look to him. 

Disheveled, messy hair, tired eyes, still in pajamas, a little spacey from your medication, hands clasped in front of your chest like an anxious housewife. 

“Uh, yeah. Of course. I’m sorry.”

Still, there’s kindness in his gaze, and he smiles at you while he cranks the window shut. “There we go. Make sure you lock it. It was pretty windy last night. Could’ve been blown open or something.” 

_The crank gets stuck sometimes because it’s so hard to move the window, but okay,_ you think to yourself, not daring to say anything and sound potentially crazier than you already do. 

“Don’t hesitate to call the emergency line if anything out of sorts happens again, ma’am.” Jamison nods curtly and heads towards the door. You give him a tight-lipped smile and he disappears down the hallway. 

Your phone pings with another text from Chloe. 

_everything okay?_

_The police did jack shit_

_figures... if this happens again i think you should stay somewhere else for the night_

_Yeah… I’ll think about it_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! There's honestly a billion different ways for this to go in my head, so don't hesitate to leave ideas in the comments. <3


	3. oscar's tavern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night at the bar with a friend ends badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pls don't come for me, anybody who actually lives in Philadelphia. I'm just trying to write the best I can from what Google tells me. :,)
> 
> Also, this chapter may be rewritten at some point! I lowkey just wrote and published it to get the idea out, and I'll probably go back and revise some things. Watch me mix up the names of the characters in my own story lmao... I went back through this chapter and corrected them!

You haven’t gotten one of those creepy voicemails or calls in a week. 

The clock strikes four thirty. You scan the lobby for anybody coming before you yawn theatrically, leaning forward to rest your head on your hand. It’s only an hour before the office closes, but time feels like it’s slowed to a crawl. The art of looking busy while really doing nothing comes naturally to you, but there’s really only so much you can browse online before you get bored.

A fly buzzes against the window across the room. You hear the occasional cough and the din of click-clacking keyboards just down the hallway from you. The ambiance is hypnotic. You find your eyelids growing heavier by the second as you slump down into your hand…

The brisk ring of the phone jolts you out of your stupor. 

“Fuck,” you say under your breath, before you pick the handset up from the receiver and put on your best receptionist voice. “Good afternoon. You’ve reached Mizuhara Media & Marketing, how can I help you?” 

“Good afternoon, ma’am. This is Jed Olsen with the The Philadelphia Inquirer.” The timbre of the man’s voice is pleasant, to say the least, soothing and polite. “Could I speak with Melissa, please?” 

You’re almost lulled back into sleep before it strikes you that you need to _respond_. 

“Yes, of course. Give me one moment.” You clear your throat and peck Melissa’s extension into the phone clumsily. She’s usually the one who connects clients with advertisers, but to be honest, you know next to nothing about what anybody does in this company.

You hit _Direct_. Set the handset down. Now you’re alone behind the front desk again, but Jed’s voice has piqued your interest. It sounds… familiar somehow, and you’re not sure if it’s in a good way or bad way. Maybe you’ve heard him on TV or on the radio or something. You hope Melissa strikes up some kind of business partnership with the Inquirer, just so you can maybe meet this Jed guy in real life. 

Your cell phone buzzes. 

_Doing anything tonight?_ It’s a text from your friend Adam. 

_No, why?_

_Wanna hit up Oscar’s tonight and get a few drinks? Buy me a beer and I’ll be your wingman ;)_

Your fingers move to type a polite declination, but something stops you. What are you gonna do if you say no, go home and watch more Hannibal? It’s not like you do anything much after work, and what better way to spend a Friday night than getting sloshed with one of your friends? 

_Count me in :) not buying you drinks tho_

_I’ll play you up_

_You’ll be irresistible_

He sends a GIF of Handsome Squidward and you snort out loud.

_Might take you up on that… if I think I need some dick lol_

_Sick_

_I’ll pick you up tonight at 9?_

_Sounds good_

✦✦✦

By the time you and Adam pull up to the sidewalk next to Oscar’s Tavern, you’re practically vibrating in excitement. 

Whatever fatigue you had from work you left at home as you got dressed up in a hurry. You switched your stuffy work blouse and slacks for something a little more chic, of course: a tight-fitting tank top, some skinny jeans, and the black leather jacket you thrifted a few months ago that makes you look oh so _edgy_. Attempting to style your hair after taking it out of that tight bun proved to be nearly impossible, so you just let it hang down around your face in loose waves. Mysterious. Perfectly messy. A smack of dark red lipstick and a few dabs of cheap perfume later, you’re absolutely glamorous and feeling yourself. 

Oscar’s is by no means upscale, classy, or really a place you want to pick up guys, but hey, it’s the first time you’ve gone out in a while and you’re excited to wear something other than pajamas for once. 

“I can’t believe you’ve lived here for what, five years now? And you still can’t parallel park for shit.” you snicker, sitting pretty in the passenger seat while Adam does a fifteen-point turn trying to wedge his used Honda Civic between two other equally junker-looking cars. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he mutters, brow knit in concentration. “Why don’t you get in the driver’s seat and do it for me, O Queen of Parallel Parking?”

“Queens don’t do peasant work.” you tease, turning your nose up. 

He huffs in laughter and punches you in the arm. Another million adjustments later and the car looks legally parked enough. 

“Okay.” Adam runs his hand through his brown curls, which he’s fluffed up with wax. He looks cute, if not a little basic, wearing a band t-shirt and a flannel with the sleeves rolled up. You specifically told him not to wear anything leather-- that’s _your_ outfit tonight. “Good to go?” 

You grin. “Hell yeah.” 

The place is packed, even for a Friday night, but you and Adam manage to find two empty spots at the bar and settle into comfortable conversation. You’re downing nothing but cheap beer-- not like they sell much else here-- but you’re perfectly content with your stein of Corona. The warm, low glow of the fairy lights they have put up all over the walls melds perfectly with the buzz you start feeling. Your cheeks are warm, and as you and Adam talk you feel your mouth quirking up into a small smile. 

Man, what was stressing you out so much these past few days? Everything feels fine here, feels fun, feels safe. 

Suddenly, a car alarm beginning to scream on the street outside catches Adam’s attention.

“Sounds like mine.” he frowns and fishes his keys out of his pocket. “I’ll be right back.” 

“Hey, I’m gonna go pee,” you call after him as weaves through the small crowd and out the door. You set a napkin atop your rum and coke and shuffle past a waitress to the bathroom.

By the time you return, Adam is sitting back at his seat and sipping on a fresh tall beer. You join him and begin nursing your drink.

_Sweet_ , you think absentmindedly, halfway through your cocktail. _Sleepy._

Adam teases you and you laugh. The crowd is so _close_ to you, everyone so tall around you, you feel like you’re in a clearing in a forest. Your body feels so warm, so safe. The drink is intoxicating. You almost wish you hadn’t finished it as you set the empty glass down on the counter. Adam’s mouth is moving again, but you can barely make out the words he’s saying. 

“Adam…” you start, but your jaw feels like it’s moving through molasses. You’re not even sure that the words coming out of your mouth are intelligible-- they’re just syllables spilling from your lips at this point. 

So safe. 

So warm…

You can barely make out what he’s saying, but you _can_ read his expression. It’s a pronounced frown, brows upturned in concern. 

_Why do you look so worried?_ you want to ask with a chuckle, but it comes out slurred. Garbled. You begin to slump over in your stool. 

“Oh my God. Are you okay? Come on.” The music and the crowd have faded to a dull thudding in your ears and you just want to _collapse_ , boneless on the floor, shut your eyes and go to sleep. He’s pulling you out the door now and to his car, but you’re tripping over your own feet trying to follow him. 

_Go slower._

_Slow._

Your vision begins to spin and fade as he scoops you up and practically carries you to the passenger seat of his car. The bar looks so far away, like it’s down a long, dark tunnel.

Somebody steps out of the bar after you. Your eyes are drifting shut, but you manage to catch a glimpse of their face. 

He’s wearing a black hoodie with its hood up under a dark jacket. You stare, entranced, the last of your consciousness zeroing in on this stranger’s face. In the dim light you can barely make out his light blond hair, his expression--

He’s _glowering_ , almost. Maybe at you, maybe at Adam. 

But just before you’re shoved into the car, he raises his head. The neon light illuminates his face, slim and handsome, and he shoots you a smile. There’s something distinctly _wrong_ about it, though, even apparent through your impaired vision and thinking. He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat. His teeth are bared in a grin, but there’s _nothing_ behind his eyes. It almost reminds you of something pretending to be kind, pretending to be safe. An unpleasant chill runs down your spine like electricity. 

“We have to get you home.” Adam’s breathless, panicked voice is the last thing you hear before you finally succumb to the magnetic tug of unconsciousness. 


	4. the journalist

Thick, dreamless darkness, halfway between death and sleep. 

Consciousness ebbs slowly in from a mile away, light leaching in through the cracks in your eyelids. You roll your eyes around, left, and right, then pry one of them open.

An instant jolt of regret hits you as a pang of intense pain makes itself known in your temples and behind your eyes. You screw them shut again. Directionless thoughts drift through your mind like dandelion seeds in a gentle breeze. Everything around you is soft, so soft. Your limbs are cinderblocks, anchored to the surface of your mattress. 

You try fluttering an eyelid open again, this time expecting the pain, and wince. Sunlight beams directly from a gap in your curtains onto your face. Grunting, you roll your head to the side, shut your eyes, and fall back into nothingness. 

  
  


✦✦✦

“Hey. Wake up.” a soft, concerned voice urges you. It says your name. Once. Twice. “Are you feeling okay?” 

This time, there’s no impossibly bright shaft of light beaming into your eyes, but its reflection off of your white sheets is enough to make you squint. 

The voice urges you awake again, and you recognize it as Adam. Adam? Why is he in your apartment?

You let out a long, low moan and look up to the face hovering above you. He looks worried, to say the least, with his hand resting gently on your shoulder. 

“What are you doing here?” you manage. God, your throat feels so dry, like it’s sticking to itself on the inside. You lick your lips with a tongue that feels fat and sandpapery. A bitter, rancid taste coats the inside of your mouth and almost makes you gag. 

“I mean, you basically passed out last night.” Adam clears his throat. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t die or anything.” 

Last night.

Snapshot memories from the evening flicker on and off in your head. The color of the leaves on the trees outside as you walked down the sidewalk and into the bar, the bitchy waitress that took forever to get you the menu, the smell of booze and the warm air that hit you as you walked through the door. You had a beer, or two, or three, and then a cocktail to treat yourself… 

  
  


Your recollection ends there. And then there’s now, this morning, where you feel more hungover than you ever have in your  _ life _ . Everything in between is just pages ripped out of a book-- you have nothing but speculation to fill the empty space that yawns in your memory.

“You didn’t take me to the hospital?” Your lips stretch into a dull smile. They hurt, too. 

“Well… no. I figured you had just had too much to drink or something and I flipped out. I’m sorry.” 

You sit up and a monstrous nausea rears its head in your gut. 

“The trashcan--” you gag, clapping a hand over your mouth. Adam is prepared, luckily, and hands it to you right as you lurch forward and empty the contents of your stomach into it. “-- fuck. Jesus Christ.” 

“Water?” 

“Please.”

He disappears out of your room and returns with a filled glass, which looks like just about the tastiest thing you’ve ever laid eyes on. You guzzle it like a woman dying of thirst-- which you might as well be, from the way your mouth feels-- and set it down on the bedside table with a trembling hand. 

“What did they sell me, fucking ethanol?” you croak, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. That awful bitterness sticking to your teeth returns with a vengeance and you struggle not to vomit again. 

“You didn’t even drink that much.”

“Cheap beer, y’know?” you say weakly, trying to sound reassuring. But you know he’s right.

“I’m serious. You had, what, two drinks and a cocktail? That’s seriously not enough to knock someone out. Especially  _ you _ .” 

“I haven’t had a drink in a while. My tolerance is probably just shot.” 

Adam’s eyes bore into you with a stare that looks halfway between incredulous and worried. He folds his arms, hovering above you in silence. 

“Two beers.” he repeats. “Do you really think that would knock you out that bad? Look, I don’t want to scare you, but I think somebody might have slipped something in your drink.”

You cock your brow at him and huff. There’s absolutely no way your drink would have been tampered with-- you had left it in clear view of the bartender, even covered it up, took less than a minute in the bathroom… 

That same feeling of deep black foreboding creeps into your gut again and you desperately try to ignore it. It was stupid of you to leave your drink like that in a dive bar. Stupid of you to be so oblivious to a common danger you’ve been warned about before. 

You let out a shaky laugh that you both know is forced. “Let this be a lesson learned, then.” 

He looks almost  _ offended  _ at your response, uncrossing his arms. “What? What the fuck, dude, you’re not going to call the cops or anything? Go to the hospital at least?”

“It’s already happened and worn off. I doubt they’ll find any trace of it in my bloodstream. And the cops don’t really ever do anything, do they?” Your blank stare drifts to the door. “I’m really lucky you were with me.” 

“I’ll drive you. Come on--”

“I’ll be fine, Adam.” you say slowly, wetting your lips. “You can go home now.”

“...Okay.” he sighs, finally.

The silence as you walk him to the door could be carved with a knife. He tells you to stay safe before he slips out the door, and then… there’s just you. 

You, alone in your apartment again. 

You, alone, with a disgusting dry mouth and the most raging headache you’ve ever had. 

Your head threatens to float off into the sky with every movement. The room sways before you-- it looks like an oversaturated picture, too bright, too many colors. You stand in the center of the kitchen and study the sink with bovine curiosity.

_ Shock makes people numb,  _ you think to yourself.  _ I’m just numb.  _

The sound of your phone ringing barely startles you. All it does is bring you slowly out of the daze you’re submerged in. It’s probably Chloe, checking in since you haven’t texted in a while. You fish your phone from your pocket and pick it up without a second thought. 

“Hello?” 

“Somebody’s been a bit careless.” 

The dread that settles in your stomach is familiar. It’s dull this time, like an image behind frosted glass. You can see the shape of it, see it move ominously into view, but it doesn’t sting you like it usually does. 

“I thought I told you to leave me alone.” 

“How could I not check in on you after that stunt you pulled last night?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” you mutter. “And if you don’t fuck off I’m going to call the police.”

“Is Officer Jamison going to come back to your apartment and scare me away? Is that it?” he sneers, and your blood runs ice cold. Your clammy hands move to hang up, but just before you can tap the icon on your phone, he snarls something that stops you short. 

“You hang up on me and _ I’ll gut you like a fish. _ ” __

You bring the phone back up to your ear, trembling so hard you can barely hold it. 

“What do you want from me?” Your voice is barely a whisper now, and you feel the threatening prickle of tears in your eyes. 

“From now on, whenever I call you,” He inhales slowly, chuckles. “You’re going to pick up every time, unless you want your roommate’s cat eating your corpse before the police finally notice you’re missing. Okay?”

A long silence lapses between the two of you. 

“Okay.” 

“Good girl. Now get some rest.” 

  
  


✦✦✦

  
  


“Excuse me? Hey, you okay?”

A hand waves in front of your face politely. You snap out of a caffeine-crash daydream with a start, blinking up at the person behind the counter. It’s been a long day at work, to say the least, and not just because you’ve been yelled at over the phone more times than you can count since eight this morning. You’d hoped that treating yourself to an extra large iced latte over lunch would kick your spirits up a little higher, but clearly all it’s done is given you a very short lived buzz.

The thing you’re trying not to think about still hasn’t happened yet, which only worsens your anxiety at every buzz or beep your phone makes.

“Oh. Yes. I’m sorry,” you stutter, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. “How can I help you?” 

“Jed Olsen, from the Inquirer. I believe we spoke on the phone?” 

If you thought Jed Olsen over the  _ phone _ was attractive, you’re blown away by the sight in front of you right now. 

Jed Olsen  _ in person  _ is the personification of dashingly handsome. He’s  _ tall _ , which is the first thing you notice, and clad in a sharp off-white sweater over a light gray button up. His jacket-- brown leather-- is draped over his elbow. A well-worn messenger bag sits at his hip. You can see pages of paper peeking from under its cover and a few identical black pens nestled safely in its side pocket. 

The next thing you notice is his face. 

His eyes are a stormy grey, with a kind of unassuming friendliness behind them that makes you want to get to know him. His jaw and nose are strong and defined, his lips upturned into a charming smile, neatly trimmed stubble peppered across his lower face. A pair of stylish wire-rimmed glasses perch on the bridge of his nose. His dirty blond hair is immaculately swept back and styled, with a few strands falling down over his forehead  _ just so _ . 

You sit there for a moment in childlike awe before you realize that his hand has been extended towards you for an awkward amount of time. His smile is unwavering though, even as he quirks a brow at you in concern. 

“Oh. Oh my God, I’m sorry.” you press a hand to your temple and blink hard. “Crashing from my coffee this afternoon. Nice to meet you, Mr. Olsen.” As you shake his hand, you can’t help but notice how soft it is. 

“I’m meeting with Melissa, I believe.” He taps the sleek black watch around his right wrist. “I’m a little early.” 

“Of course. I’ll go and get her right away. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, water?” 

“No thank you.” 

You give him one last nod before you disappear down the hallway and into the back corridor, where the bigger, nicer office spaces are. 

Melissa’s office is exactly like her personality: maximum functionality, minimal clutter. You’re not sure how she fits all of the documents she’s amassed over time into two filing cabinets in the back of her room, but hey, she’s known as the high strung workaholic around here for a reason. Three identical potted plants sit on a shelf in the center of the floor-to-ceiling window, and aside from her sprawling mahogany desk and matching office chair, the room is essentially featureless. She has some “art”-- one large contemporary splash of paint on a canvas hung on the back wall of her office, plus a Newton’s cradle sitting neatly on her desk-- but that doesn’t fully convince you she’s not a robot. 

And, about her personality? Well, people who aren’t interested in making friends or relationships outside of business all usually act the same way. 

You knock on the glass door of her office and she doesn’t even pause the torrential outpour of her typing. She doesn’t even acknowledge you, so you knock again, and she stops and looks up as if you’ve done something  _ gravely insulting _ . 

“Jed Olsen’s here to meet with you.” 

“Mm.” 

She takes another sip of coffee out of her swanky temperature-controlled mug and stares back at her computer screen. 

“Tell him I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

No please, no thank you. You conceal your sigh of annoyance and hurry back down the hallway. The loud tap-tap-tapping of your black pumps on the linoleum floor is suddenly very embarrassing to you. 

“Mr. Olsen? She says she’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Thanks. I never caught your name?” 

“Oh,” you say, sounding flustered despite your best efforts. You tell him your name after a bashful silence. 

“Beautiful name.” He smiles. “And please, call me Jed.”

Before you can wipe the stupid grin off of your face and come up with any kind of response, Melissa is gliding down the hallway and waves Jed over to her with a flourish of her manicured nails. They exchange businesslike greetings. He gives you a small wave before he walks down the hallway in front of her. You swear she gives you a cold glare before she, too, disappears after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! <3


	5. a gift

“Babe.” Chloe almost sounds disappointed, even through the telephone. “You can’t be serious.” 

“I am.” you say sheepishly, biting your lip. You wedge the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you shut your car door. The key fob is broken or something-- it takes a frustrating amount of mashing the lock button until your car finally chirps and blinks its lights. 

Great. Another thing to take care of. 

Changing the locks on your apartment (if your cheap ass landlord ever takes care of it), finding a new hiding spot for your keys, finally grocery shopping so you aren’t just eating Pop Tarts for every meal, and now, figuring out what’s wrong with your stupid key fob before you’re locked out of your car just when you need it the most. 

Chloe’s been talking, but her voice just fades into the din of the streets as you busy yourself with slinging your bag over your shoulder and limping to the entrance of your apartment building. You feel like Cinderella’s stepsister in your too-small black heels. Every step kills your feet just a little more. 

“Hey, did you hear me?” 

“Oh.” You blink hard. “Say that again?” 

After an exasperated sigh, she says, “Okay. I want you to change the locks today or tomorrow, even if Earl gives you shit about it. When you get the new keys, keep one on you at all times. Give the other key to Adam or somebody else you trust. Try not to be alone if you can manage it. And, for God’s sake, get some pepper spray.” 

“Mhm.” 

“You’re fucking crazy, girl. Getting roofied is not a joke. You should go to the doctor and make sure it didn’t do any permanent damage.”

“Mhm.” You pull the pins out of your haywire bun and let your hair tumble down onto your shoulders. 

“Are you even listening to me?”

The truth is, you’re not really listening to her, even as she goes on and on about  _ your safety  _ and  _ oh my God you have a stalker  _ and  _ Muffy might get out…  _

If anything, your irritation is growing with every one of her fretful words. You know it’s wrong and misplaced and irrational, and that she’s just trying to help you because she’s worried. But your toes are literally going to fall off if you don’t get out of these pumps, your scalp aches from having your hair up all day, you feel like you’re about to crawl out of your skin, and you have another persistent headache that clouds the few rational thoughts you have. 

You shuffle into the elevator alone.

“Chloe, I promise you I’ll do everything you just told me. But  _ please  _ spare me the lecture. I know you’re worried, and this is really freaky, but I’m sure it’ll be fine…” You reach down and slip your heels off. “I know what to do and I can handle myself.” 

“Can you at least stay somewhere else for the night? Maybe Adam or Maya’s place? Hell, even a family member?” 

“I would actually rather die than spend a night at my parents’. Adam has roommates and I haven’t spoken to Maya since--” Well, since she fucked your now ex-boyfriend. “We just haven’t spoken in a long time.” 

“Right.” she says tactfully. “Sorry. I forgot about that.” 

The hallway stretches out in front of you, a dimly lit abyss bordered by doors that go on forever. Your heels are now dangling from your hand as you trudge all the way to the end of the hall and up to your familiar, gross little doormat. 

“I’ll come home early if you need me. I’m serious. I’m worried about you.” 

You open your mouth to answer, but something on your doorstep makes your breath hitch in your throat. 

A family-sized bag of salt and vinegar chips sits, wrapped in a red velvet ribbon, on your welcome mat. A little heart-shaped pink card is nestled into the bow tied on top. 

“Is everything okay? I will actually call the cops for you--”

“Chloe,” you breathe, “I need to go.” 

With that, you hang up on her, paralyzed with your eyes locked onto that little bag. You finally spur yourself to step forward and snatch the note out of the ribbon. 

_ You were going to finish Hannibal tonight, right?  _

_ I hope you enjoy the snack.  _

“What the hell?” you mutter to yourself. You know Adam wouldn’t do this kind of thing, and aside from him, which of your friends would go out of their way to drive to your apartment building to bring you your favorite snack? Did anybody even  _ know  _ your favorite snack aside from Chloe? And, of course, there’s the fact that you  _ were  _ planning to watch Hannibal tonight, swaddled in your PJs with a huge mug of hot chocolate, like you do after every particularly stressful day at work. 

Stiffly, as if somebody had a gun to the back of your head, you unlock your door and enter your apartment, taking the bag of chips with you. 

In a bizarre, terrifying way, you find it kind of funny. If your stalker is kind enough to leave you your favorite snack, maybe they aren’t out there to completely make your life miserable. 

“Fuck!” you yelp as the ring of your cell phone blares out of your pocket. After a few deep breaths, you answer. 

“I’m not playing your little game.”

“Really? Could’ve fooled me. It’s almost like you  _ want  _ me to watch you. Leaving your key out, staying alone in your apartment, rejecting all of your friends’ attempts to help you...” 

“What the fuck is this?” You interrupt him, scowling as you run a hand through your hair. “I mean, I would understand a dead bird or something, but a bag of chips?”   
  


“No thanks? I see how it is. Y’know, I went out of my way to get you your favorite. The dead bird is a great idea, though. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Just tell me what you want from me.”

“Can’t a guy get his crush a gift without being interrogated about it? Jeez, you must have had a really stressful day.” he says softly. Boyishly, almost. You notice how fluidly he changes his disposition and the tone of his voice, and it drives a shiver down your spine. 

“I said, tell me wh--”

“In fact,” he continues, ignoring you, “I  _ know  _ you had a really stressful day. Melissa’s a real bitch, isn’t she?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out except for a barely-concealed gasp. 

“I see she’s going to strike up a business partnership with the Inquirer. Always loved that paper. Olsen, is it? He’s the one going into your office?” 

“Leave him out of this,” you choke out, after a long silence. 

“Ah,” he says quietly. “You’ve got a thing for him already, haven’t you?”

“What? I barely know him--”

“Sure. That’s what they all say.” He yawns theatrically. “It’s late, princess. You should get started on dinner.” 

Before you can even think of a response, he hangs up on you. You stand stone still in the center of your kitchen for a long moment before you realize you never closed the door behind you. The curtains are drawn, and have been for close to a week now. It never occurred to you how much you miss the sun until you shut your apartment door and stand there in the dark, lip trembling. 

Muffy looks up at you and meows. 

“Okay, girl,” you whisper. “I’ll feed you. Give me a second.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always appreciate comments because I am a goblin fueled by external motivation. Hope you enjoyed! <3


	6. unraveling

The days begin to blur together. 

Monday, you wake up to the sound of your alarm blaring, and stumble through the dim lights of your apartment to get ready in the morning. You’ve developed something of a chronic fear of your windows. The curtains have stayed drawn for longer than you can remember. When you walk to your car, your eyes can’t help but dart around you rapidly, searching for something. Someone. Anything that could be watching you. 

Tuesday, you begin to bring your little orange bottle of klonopin with you to work. Every time the phone rings, you have to force your trembling hand to pick up the receiver. Some of your coworkers begin to notice your apprehension, no matter how much you try to hide it. 

Wednesday, you begin to realize how you look. You show up to work perpetually frazzled, your hair tucked into a bun far messier than usual, your blouses wrinkled. Coffee begins to replace breakfast for you-- you’re not sleeping well and you’re waking up far too late to do anything except gather your things, feed Muffy, and run out the door. Concealer becomes your best friend. How else will you hide the dark rings under your eyes? 

Thursday, Earl finally replaces the locks to your apartment and hands you two shiny brass keys. That day everything feels just a little bit better. You keep one key in your work bag. The other you bury in one of Chloe’s potted plants. 

Friday, and you’re beginning to unravel. 

It’s midday and you’re standing over the sink at work, heaving in panicked breaths. Your phone rang while you were sitting in on a company meeting, and you couldn’t pick it up in time. 

You look at yourself in the mirror. The reflection that stares back is barely recognizable to you anymore. She’s pale. The concealer is a paltry attempt at disguising the bags under her eyes. The hollows of her cheeks seem more pronounced, her eyes wider, more fearful. Her lips are red and bitten, and now she feels the threat of tears coming in her eyes and her throat. 

“Jesus Christ.” you murmur, breaking away from the mirror to rummage through your purse for your pill bottle. Might as well take one now, for good measure, before the panic hits you later. It’s bitter on your tongue as you swallow it dry. 

Just then, the bathroom door swings open, and the telltale click-clack of designer suede heels has you scrambling to close the bottle and shove it back into your bag. 

It’s Melissa. Of course it’s Melissa. It’s always Melissa. She eyes you venomously. No doubt she saw or at least  _ heard  _ the loud rattle of your pills as you hid them away. 

“You feeling okay?” she asks, but her voice drips with animosity. She looks back down at your bag. “I notice you taking a lot of those lately.”

You don’t even bother to turn and look at her, pretending to scrutinize your nonexistent makeup in the mirror. “Uh-huh.” you say vaguely, hoping she’ll lose interest and drop it. 

“That’s not very professional of you, if you don’t mind me saying.” The condescension in her voice is thinly veiled by a patronizing, mock-friendly tone. “I appreciate that you’re taking it somewhere more private, though.”

You turn to her slowly, an uneasy frown apparent on your face. Nothing escapes your mouth. 

“I’m just trying to look out for you, honey.” She gives your shoulder a stiff pat with her bony, taloned hand, and you struggle not to flinch backwards at her touch. “If Christine sees you with those, she might be inspired to take some disciplinary action.”

“I appreciate it, but I really think you should mind your own business.” Your voice is thick with anger. 

Melissa shrugs her shoulders at you before offering you a sneer. “I would just  _ hate  _ to have anybody other than you taking my calls, sweetie.” 

Before you can even realize what you’re doing, you’re storming past her with your bag clenched in your white-knuckled fists. There’s only so much bullshit you can handle in one day. Melissa adds to that tenfold. 

It’s around three thirty when the elevator dings and you stare, wide-eyed, as Jed Olsen and an older looking man in a suit step out and walk towards your desk. They’re locked in pleasant conversation, but as they approach you, Jed breaks away and flashes you a charming grin. 

“Hey there.” The way he says your name makes you want to melt. You feel like a stupid schoolgirl all over again, swooning at the sight of a cute boy on the playground. “I think you know who we’re meeting with today.” He winks.

“Melissa?” you guess, returning his cheeky smile. “I’ll get her right away. Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?” 

  
  


✦✦✦

Jed and the man who you assume is his superior stay in their meeting with Melissa until well after closing, and it’s only after you’ve washed all the coffee cups and refilled the carafe in the break room that the three of them exit her office and make their way down the hall. You’re picking up your bag and your jacket just as the older man bids Melissa goodbye and enters the elevator. She chats briefly with Jed, shakes his hand, and then walks back to her office. 

You do your best to look busy as Jed rests his elbows on the counter in front of your desk. 

“Getting ready to go?”

“Yeah.” you shrug your jacket onto your shoulders and fish around your bag for your car keys, then peer up at him. “Did you need something?”

“Oh, uh, no.” He runs his fingers through his hair and adjusts his glasses. “I was just going to ask if you wanted some company on your way to your car.” 

Your face lights up automatically before you slap yourself mentally for grinning like an idiot. “I’d love some.” 

“Can I carry that for you? You must be tired.” He extends a hand, motioning towards your bag, and you sigh in relief before handing it to him.  _ What a gentleman _ , you think to yourself, giddy with delight. 

The two of you make small talk on the way down from the office and to the lobby of the building. The crisp chill of November hits you as you walk outside, and instinctively, you huddle a little closer to him. 

“So Melissa’s still working, I take it?”

“Yeah.” You roll your eyes. “It’s not unusual for her to stay after hours. She’s really workaholic.” 

“I can tell. She’s very… efficient, to say the least.” 

  
“So what do you do?” You look up at him. “I mean, what are you at a marketing agency for?”

“I’m a columnist. Not usually the one to interact with the agencies themselves, at least in terms of coming up with advertisements, but I’ve been tasked with writing about you guys for an article on women-owned businesses. Melissa just happens to be one of our interviewees for the article, until we can get an audience with the great CEO herself.” 

“So the other guy you walked in with…” 

“He’s basically my boss. Wanted to tag along to observe my process or something.” 

“Ah.” you say, nodding your head in feign understanding. “To be honest, I barely know anything that actually goes on at Mizuhara. I’m usually just at the front desk taking calls and sorting paperwork.” 

He nudges you with his elbow. “Hey, at least you aren’t drinking coffee out of a temperature controlled mug and bursting blood vessels over clients.” 

The two of you share a little chuckle, and for a moment, everything feels a little safer. The street is lit in the warm golden hue of the sunset, streetlights and trees along the sidewalk casting long shadows in front of you, and for the first time in weeks you’re not preoccupied scanning every inch of the alleyways and buildings for anything that might be watching you. You’re excited at the thought of calling Chloe and telling her all about this new hot guy-- a  _ journalist _ , not a fry cook or Target clerk this time-- that walked you to your car and carried your bag for you. A small smile spreads across your face just thinking about it. 

Your eyes drift up to Jed, who walks with you in confident stride. The sunlight hits his face and illuminates his eyes in an almost angelic way. A stray breeze ruffles his blond locks.  _ God  _ he’s hot. 

“There’s my car.” you say, pointing just ahead of you to a small parking lot. “I hope you didn’t park too far away.”

“Not at all. Don’t worry. I spend way too much time sitting at a desk anyway.” 

You pull your keys out of your pocket and click the unlock button a couple times. Nothing happens. You groan, holding it out in front of you. Of all times for your key fob to not work, why  _ now _ , when a charming, handsome guy is standing out in chilly weather waiting for you to get into your car?

“I’m sorry, this thing is broken. Just give me one second…” 

“No worries.” He stands behind you, waiting patiently, as you try every different trick to get your stupid car to unlock. It finally cooperates, and you turn back to him with a grateful smile. 

“Well, thank you for walking me to my car. And carrying my stuff. It was nice having some company for once.” 

“My pleasure.” He hands your bag back to you before he rummages through his own messenger bag and produces a blue sticky note. Placing it against the window of your car, he jots down a number with one of his many black pens, and hands it to you with a wink. “In case you ever want to get coffee sometime, and... discuss  _ business _ .” 

You pause, staring at it, before you take it from him. “Thanks. I’ll text you sometime.” 

“Got it.” 

When he says goodbye and turns back to the sidewalk, it takes all the constraint you have in you not to jump up and down and dance a little jig in the parking lot. It’s a little speck of security in the sea of paranoia that’s been consuming you, and you’re determined to hold onto it and stay afloat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two more chapters after this I'm going to post in the next few days, so keep watching for updates!


	7. patience

If Danny Johnson knows anything, it’s patience. 

Patience when it comes to choosing a victim. Patience when he’s following their every move. Patience planning their death, its time, place, brutality, meticulous execution, and exactly how he wants their corpse to look when the police come knocking the next day. 

His most recent was truly some of his finest work. It was a pity that the only people around to witness it were in no way going to _appreciate_ it; no, they were going to mop it up off the ground, take horribly washed-out photos of it, then bag and tag it and send it to the morgue. He thinks his pictures of the crime scene are better than the police’s by a long shot. They’re great angles, perfect composition, just the right amount of light-- but, of course, his are taken for a very different purpose. 

Esme Reed was a woman of potential. Danny had met her-- well, _noticed_ her-- in an ice cream parlor a few blocks away from his apartment building, working on a scoop of rocky road atop of a waffle cone. She was presumably with a few friends, laughing under an umbrella on a sunny veranda. He was only there to snap a few pictures for his “local eats” article and maybe grab a scoop of mint chocolate chip himself, but something about her intrigued him, and that insatiable lust for violence deep inside him was feeling particularly strong that day. 

Thinking back on it, he wasn’t sure what initially drew him to her. Maybe it was the way her dark hair fell around her face, perfectly complimenting the summer tan she had going. Or maybe it was the way she spoke to her friends, giggling, teasing, vibrant with energy and joy. She had perfect teeth and neatly manicured nails, and he was sure he wasn’t the only one to notice the nice tight body underneath that gauzy sundress of hers. Her throat was delicate, unblemished, ringed by a thin silver chain. 

The hungry thought that hit his mind sent an exhilarating shiver through his body: that throat would look beautiful slit cleanly across the center, weeping rivulets of dark blood. 

She wasn’t the most careful, as he came to know over the first few weeks. She drove directly home from the ice cream parlor and didn’t seem to notice the black Impala trailing behind her. It was easy enough to find out where she lived, and from the roof of a neighboring building, he mapped out every detail of her routine. 

Esme woke up every morning at five thirty to a Spotify-curated playlist of upbeat music, to which she would dance and sing to in the shower. Her showers usually lasted no more than fifteen minutes, and were usually followed by her walking naked (he quite liked this part) to her bedroom to pick out comfortable clothing to wear beneath her scrubs. She usually kept the window to her fire escape unlocked, which he appreciated. It made things a lot easier.

She’d usually have a light breakfast consisting of some kind of carb, a fresh fruit or vegetable, and a sizeable flask of black coffee that she’d sip on her way to the hospital. Danny was impressed by her adherence to an ascetic high-fiber, low-portion diet. No wonder she had such a nice body. 

He didn’t bother to stick around during her work day. He didn’t particularly care for infants, and besides, all he needed to know about her was that she was at her weakest after a long shift at work. Working in the NICU was tiring, no doubt. Unlike other victims, she was never one to collapse under her stress cravings and buy a donut or a cheeseburger on the way home. Instead, she would drive half-asleep through late evening traffic, trudge up to her apartment, and take a carefully portioned tupperware of dinner from her freezer to reheat and eat while she watched Seinfeld. 

Esme’s day shifts meant long stretches of time for Danny to let himself into her apartment through the fire escape and rifle through her belongings (gloved and disguised, of course). She seemed to be a fan of crime fiction, judging from the extensive collection on her neatly organized bookshelf. The irony was hilarious.

He learned a lot about people by what they did in their time alone, especially to relieve stress. She spent nights reading grim novels about detectives and elusive serial killers, sipping on mugs of hot chamomile. There were always the Seinfeld reruns she loved to watch over and over again. And, of course, there were the nights when she’d take out the contents of the bottom drawer of her dresser and… well… have a good time. Amusing to watch, but never of much interest to him.

She usually spent weekends with friends out on the town. Her love life was virtually nonexistent-- not because she was an unpleasant person to be around, but because she didn’t have time for many men in her life besides the ones in her crime novels. She wasn’t especially close to her family, on account of her parents’ demanding nature, but she would still visit every few weeks. It was clear her favorite family member was their black Lab, Lucy. 

Nobody was free of their vices. Hers was shoe shopping, bizarrely enough, considering she never got to wear anything stylish until her few-and-far-between days off. She drank occasionally, always Long Island iced teas or strawberry daiquiris, but never enough to impair her decision making. On the rare occasion she went to her favorite ice cream parlor, she would order a scoop of dairy-free rocky road on a waffle cone. 

Danny truly did admire her discipline. He decided he’d make her death a little more interesting, for both her and him.

She was three fourths of the way through a thick thriller crime novel about a young female detective and a serial killer playing cat and mouse in the urban jungle of Los Angeles. Her tastes were very specific, always something to do with a Final Girl kind of character and a cruelly handsome criminal locked in a power struggle. Danny went through the hassle of reading the entire novel. He didn’t usually go  _ this  _ deep with a kill, but she was truly an upstanding citizen-- she deserved better than to die of multiple stab wounds in some public bathroom in the underbelly of Philly. 

It started with his tradition of phone calls, usually voicemails left for her to listen to after work. The first few were just heavy breathing, to be cliche. He’d occasionally point out something intensely personal to rattle her.

_ I like the pattern on the panties you wore today.  _

_ Didn’t you already watch that Seinfeld episode two nights ago? _

_ You’re running low on chamomile, sweetheart. _

The serial killer in the novel had a penchant for taking mementos of his victims. It wasn’t necessarily Danny’s style, but in the name of fun, he began to steal little things from her apartment. Nothing too obvious, of course, but just enough to keep her on her toes. 

First, the necklace she had been wearing when he first spotted her. 

Then her spare key, of course.

Little trinkets, like her address book, a photo of her dog, one of the novels on her shelf. He made sure to shuffle some of her belongings around with every visit  _ just enough _ to make her question herself.

Danny knew her pride would keep her from telling anybody close to her about the phone calls. The perverse sense of satisfaction from knowing that she was  _ afraid  _ was addictive. He watched her as she began to lose sleep. She stopped going out on weekends. Her routine became the singular effort to leave her apartment as little as possible. 

It was beautiful. 

He waited until late October to finally finish the job, after a particularly stressful day at work. He had recently updated his getup: new black leather gloves; brand new, wickedly sharp hunting knife; freshly cleaned cowl, jacket, and mask. 

He parked his car on the street two blocks down from her apartment building an hour before she finished her shift at work. The alleyways leading to the complex would allow him to disguise himself quickly and then slip to her apartment relatively unnoticed. Most people would be working on dinner at that hour of night, so as long as he was quiet on the fire escape, he’d be able to enter without a hitch. 

The thrill of the hunt and the prospect of bloodshed were the two most exciting parts of a kill for Danny. He felt like a different person when he had his mask on and his cowl over his head. The feeling of having somebody’s life in his hands, somebody he had gotten to know the most intimate parts of without them even knowing, hearing them wail and beg for their lives--

God, it was better than sex. Better than anything he had ever known in his life before killing. It was his heroin. 

He heard her unlock the door of her apartment and set her bag down just as he took cover beside the door of her dark bedroom. The anticipation hanging in the air was delicious. A wide grin split his face as she shuffled up to the doorway, yawning. 

Danny was on her in the blink of an eye. He seized her from behind, pressing the vicious edge of his blade hard against the delicate skin of her throat. Esme knew better than to scream. 

“Please, please, don’t do this,” she begged, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Please, God, let me go. I’ll give you anything you want. I have jewelry in the safe--” 

“Shh,” Danny placed a finger against her lips. “I’ll make sure you look nice and pretty for the camera.” 

“Why--” was the last word to leave her mouth before he slashed the knife expertly across her throat in one deft move of his hand, then pushed her forward by the center of her back. 

She stumbled, hands clutched to her throat, a thick cascade of glistening crimson spilling down from the dark gash drawn in her skin. As she turned to him and dropped to her knees, he couldn’t help but admire as the blood trickled down over her clavicles and into the divot between her breasts.

“Fuck,” he groaned, wiping his knife carefully with the fingers of his glove, “You look perfect, Esme. Beautiful. More beautiful than I’ve ever seen you.”

He snickered as she let out a pathetic gurgle, blood staining her pristine smile a dark red before she finally collapsed onto the floor with a thud. He had to take a moment to collect himself, watching the life leave her eyes while red bubbled and foamed around the corners of her mouth. 

“Oh,” he sighed. “Just beautiful.” The last details of the murder would make it picture perfect. 

A page torn out of the novel she had been reading, pinned into the center of her chest with one of her expensive kitchen knives. 

If Danny Johnson knows anything, it’s that patience pays off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now a playlist and Pinterest moodboard for this fanfiction! Let me know if you guys want to see it.


	8. invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/003ygDXhSnLBWMQohCjWrX?si=y_RpckbUR3-Ks5H_4OGMDQ)
> 
> [Moodboard!](https://pin.it/2WVzDlW)
> 
> Don't come for me for choosing a face claim for Danny... I needed somebody brooding and dangerous (and hot) to put on the moodboard...  
> Hope the playlist is enjoyable! It's mostly just music I like, so the genres in there may not be for everybody.

The glow of giddy delight you feel as you pull up to the parking spot near your apartment dies immediately as you step out of your car and promptly dump the contents of your bag onto the street.

“Oh my God.” You rest your head in your hands. You should’ve zipped it shut, stupid, this always happens. Sighing, you get on your knees to scoop handfuls of accumulated junk back into your purse. Crumpled receipts flutter away in the wind. You study your hand mirror--  _ no scratches or cracks, good _ \-- and toss it back into the side pocket with your makeup bag. The tips of your nails scrape the pavement as you scrabble to pick up the smattering of loose change. An ancient granola bar, probably fossilized at this point, you pocket to throw away on your way inside. Once you’re finished haphazardly shoving your stuff back into your bag, you get to your feet, struggle with your keys for another minute until your car locks, and finally hobble back to your apartment building. 

What pleasant feelings you garnered from your conversation with Jed begin to erode the closer you get to your apartment. Once you step out of the elevator, you have to remind yourself that the lock is changed, only you have the key to enter, and the windows have been latched shut and blinded for weeks now. Nothing can look into or get into your apartment. In fact, the only time you’re really  _ stalkable  _ is when you’re on your way to and from work. 

As long as you stay inside your apartment or around people as much as possible, you’ll be fine. 

You let out a heavy sigh and fish around your now rearranged bag to find your new key. It’s usually somewhere deep within one of the inner pockets, so it can’t have traveled far when you dropped all your stuff… 

You rummage through your purse more intensely, frantically pulling out handfuls of wrappers and ballpoint pens until you realize, with a deep, sinking feeling in your chest, that you must’ve missed it when you were picking things up.

“Goddammit.” You lay your forehead against the cool wood of your door and close your eyes. Why does  _ everything  _ have to be difficult?

Defeated, you traipse back to the elevator, down to the lobby, and down the street where your car is parked. You drop to your knees and search the ground again, but the pavement is just as gray and cold and empty as ever. Under your car? Nothing. By the driver’s side door? Still nothing. 

It’s only then that you realize there’s a storm drain less than a foot away from where you dropped your bag. 

When you’re walking back inside, you feel the most tired and miserable you’ve ever felt in years. You dial Earl’s number as you make your way back upstairs. He’s not going to be happy that you dropped your new key into a sewer, but as far as you’re concerned, he can go fuck himself. 

  
  


✦✦✦

It’s one hour, a tense conversation with your pissed off landlord, and a fifty-dollar “convenience fee” that you think is bullshit before you’re finally behind the door of your apartment and staring down at an angry cat. 

“I know, Muffy.” you mutter, dragging yourself to the kitchen counter and laying your head on the cold granite. “I’m a disappointment. Can’t even get home to feed you in time.”

She meows like she’s saying, “Damn right.”

Tears threaten to fall from your eyes, just out of sheer exhaustion, but you steel yourself with a sniffle and pull the blue sticky note out of your bag. 

You hesitate. Would it be weird to call him the day he gave you his number? Would a text be better, maybe? 

You only live once, right? If you don’t call him, you know you'll just pass out in bed as soon as you get into your room and wake up in the wee hours of the morning feeling stale and groggy. 

And, as hesitant as you are to admit it, you  _ are  _ kind of being stalked right now. If anything, your chances of living another day have gone  _ down _ . 

You quickly type the digits into the keypad and press the call button before better judgment can prevent you from doing so. To keep your fidgety hands busy, you break out Muffy’s kibble and shake a healthy portion of it into her bowl. 

“Wish me luck,” you say to her with a wink. She gives you an encouraging meow-- at least, you’re pretending it’s encouraging-- and stalks up to her dinner with her tail flicking back and forth. 

He picks up, but he doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. You hear cooking ambiance in the background: a pan being placed on a rack and an oven door closing, what sounds like a wooden spoon stirring something in a pot. 

Oh, he  _ cooks _ . What a guy.

“Uh, hi, Jed! I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” you say, cringing at yourself. It would be supremely awkward if you had just interrupted some kind of party or gathering that he happened to be planning tonight. Even worse? Interrupting dinner he might be cooking for a potential girlfriend or date. That thought sours your mood a little bit. It was stupid of you to assume he was single and interested in you, so, so stupid… 

“Not at all! I was hoping you’d call, actually.” His response breaks you out of your spiral of anxious thoughts and you practically deflate in relief. “Caught me in the middle of cooking dinner.”

“I’m sorry! I can call back another time--”

“No, no, you’re totally fine. What’s up?”

Okay, well, shit, you didn’t expect to be asked that. You’re not even sure what you expected at all. A polite rejection, maybe? You’re quiet for an uncomfortably long time before you finally come up with, “Uh, nothing, really. I just got home from work. Well-- I didn’t just get back-- I mean, I got back a while ago, but…”

“Mhm?”

“Okay, well, I dropped my bag all over the pavement and lost my key and my landlord’s pissed at me, and my cat’s probably mad at me too, because I took forever to get home today-- long story short, I’m not having a great night.” You garnish your word vomit with an awkward chuckle. “What about you?”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, in a voice so warm it soothes your dismay just hearing it. “Not much going on tonight. In fact, I think I could use some help with my dishes.” 

You pause. “I, uh… well-- I don’t--”

He gives you a hearty, contagious laugh that sends warmth spreading into your cheeks and butterflies fluttering in your tummy. 

“I’m asking you to come over for dinner.”

“Oh-- um--” Suddenly you’ve forgotten how to speak, stuttered  _ uhms  _ and  _ ahs  _ tumbling from your mouth in word soup. “Wh-- are you sure? I don’t want to intrude or anything,” 

Jesus, it’s like you’re in your freshman year of high school again talking to _that_ one football jock during your passing period. Girlish, flustered feelings invade your head in place of the anxiety and dread you’ve become accustomed to these past few weeks.

And it’s so  _ sudden _ , the way he asks. You definitely were not planning to be spending this evening wining and dining in the apartment of the dashing stranger you met at work. No, you were thinking you’d be curled up on the couch with a pint of ice cream and Hannibal playing well into the wee hours of the morning. But you certainly don’t mind the invitation. 

“If you’re not too tired, of course. I always have leftovers anyway. All these recipes are measured for two.” The wooden spoon stirs something saucy and then taps against the edge of the pot. “And there’s no better company to a lonely man than a pretty lady.” 

You swear you can sense him  _ wink _ . 

“Alright,” you say coyly. “Care to tell me your address?”

He spells it out for you and you jot it down onto the blue sticky note just under his phone number.

“Give me an hour?”

“I anxiously await your arrival, m’lady.” 

You stifle a giggle, hang up, and then look down at Muffy with wide eyes. 

“Muffy, did you just hear that?!” you whisper-yell, smooshing her little face with your hands. “I have a date tonight!”

_ “Get that game, girl,” _ she meows, and you practically fly past her down to your bedroom. 

Jed’s invitation to dinner has breathed life into your weary body. Suddenly, your sore neck and feet are just an afterthought. You’d wear Cinderella’s fucking glass slippers if it made you look more attractive to him. 

The chic side of your wardrobe mostly consists of cable-knit sweaters and flannels from that one phase you had last fall. Chloe enabled your shopping addiction way too much that year, but it  _ did  _ leave you with some pretty sweet designer clothing that will now come perfectly in handy on a chilly September night like this one. 

You go for a striped beige sweater that’s just the right amount of baggy, black mom jeans, and a belt. It’s simple, not frumpy, and perfectly accentuates your waist. On top of that you accessorize with some silver earrings and a delicate necklace. A dab of mascara and a little lipstick and you look alive-- hell, maybe even a little cute?

There’s a bottle of perfume sitting in your cabinet that you only bust out for special occasions. You really only ever used it when you were going somewhere fancy with your ex (how many times did that really ever happen anyway), and it would be a damn shame if it just sat there collecting dust.  _ Especially  _ since it was eighty-five dollars for two ounces of that shit. 

You spritz it lightly onto your neck and wrists, then fluff your hair with your fingers. All ready. 

“I’ll be back later tonight, Muffy.” you call to her as you slip on your sneakers, shoulder on your jacket, and walk to the door. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little short... because there's quite a bit more coming later. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Comments are always appreciated. <3  
> If you'd like to see more of my work (or art), or support me on Ko-Fi, feel free to check me out at @immodestmussorgskyy on Tumblr! It's under construction right now, but there will hopefully be more posted to it later.


	9. dinner and drinks

Jed’s apartment building is  _ goliath _ , a sprawling mass of exposed brick with rows of identical white window frames all the way from top to bottom. The wrought iron gate and courtyard that split it down the center make it look like some 18th century manor. You feel utterly dwarfed as you cross the concrete path and enter its foyer. Your hands won’t stop fiddling with the blue sticky note, which has now been folded over and over a dozen times. 

Fifth floor. You exit the elevator and enter a corridor painted a tasteful shade of grey, decked with doors on either side. This place is  _ nice _ . Yours and Chloe’s apartment is by no means a horrible place to live, but it looks about as attractive as a wet cardboard box compared to this building. 

Apartment 504. You step up to it, take a deep breath, and knock. 

You hear hurried footsteps before Jed swings the door open and greets you with a smile. He’s wearing an apron atop a grey sweater and jeans, his usually neat hair disheveled in a perfect, cute way. 

“Hi! Hey, hello. Come inside, come inside.” He ushers you in, pausing to push his glasses up on his nose. “Perfect timing. I was just about to take dinner out of the oven.”

His apartment is just like you had imagined: new, neat, and well decorated. It’s smaller than yours and Chloe’s, its living area only populated by a very crowded desk and a couch in front of a small TV. Vintage Coca-Cola, Budweiser, and newspaper ads consume some of the wall space to the left of you. Scattered newspaper clippings line the wall above his desk, some of them presumably his own work. 

The desk is the only thing here that looks even remotely messy. It’s all but swallowed in loose manuscripts, blue sticky notes, what looks like half a dozen identical black pens scattered throughout the entire mess, and something sleek and silver you can barely make out in the center that looks like a laptop. This really only adds to his charm to you. He’s a  _ journalist _ , ooh la la, and that looks like a journalist’s workspace. 

The couch is a minimalistic dark grey piece that looks like it’s been virtually untouched its entire existence. The little black remote for the TV sits on one of its arms. This entire room looks so spotless that you’d half expect to see this on a double-page spread in  _ Good Housekeeping.  _

Your eyes follow him to the kitchen, where you watch him pull a glass casserole dish from the oven and set it on a trivet on the counter. Two stools-- matching accented grey to everything else in the room-- are pulled up to the gleaming marble island. You notice that there is virtually nothing on the countertops except for a Keurig that also looks completely brand new. 

“Tired? You can come inside, you know.” he teases. 

“Sorry! Just really impressed by your apartment.” Your cheeks burn as you finally snap out of it and take your shoes off, shutting the door behind you. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks. It’s pretty easy to keep clean when you live alone.” He’s got his back turned to you now, spooning what looks like pasta into two white bowls. “Favorite beverage?” 

“Moscato.” you say sheepishly. “Not the most classy thing, I know.” 

“Luckily,” he says, pulling a bottle of pale wine from the cabinet, “I happen to have some.” 

By the time you tiptoe to the kitchen where he’s standing, he’s laid out two placemats, two bowls of pasta, poured two glasses of wine (except his glass is filled with red), and set a fork neatly next to each setting. You feel so nervous and stupid at the same time. You haven’t said a single thing to him while he’s been busy getting dinner ready, and you’re standing a little away from him just to stay out of the way. 

“Well, madame.” He runs a hand through his hair and adjusts his glasses one more time. “Dinner is served.” 

“What’s on the menu?” You perch atop one of the stools as if you’ll sully everything you touch. 

“Baked ziti. Nothing special. But,” he waggles his finger, “the sauce is homemade.” 

“Smells delicious.” 

He sits down next to you and raises his glass. “Cheers.” Yours meets his with a  _ clink _ . 

The two of you settle into casual conversation for the second time today. You feel your recent stresses fade away to a dull chatter in the back of your mind. He talks to you like you’re an old friend, always looking you in the eye as you respond to him, nodding and smiling and making playful quips at all the right moments. 

You just feel so comfortable around him. It’s like he already knows you. 

The ziti, by the way, is absolutely delicious. You finish your bowl in record time and he notices, but there’s no disparaging comment or joke about it. 

Instead, he just gets up out of his seat and says, “Ready for seconds?” 

He’s  _ perfect. _

So yes, you do get seconds, and you’d get thirds if he hadn’t informed you of dessert waiting in the freezer. The two of you are just sitting over your empty placemats now, sipping on wine. There’s a natural lull in the conversation that he takes advantage of to retrieve a couple pints of Ben & Jerry’s.

“So,” he says as he scoops a healthy serving of mint chocolate cookie into a small bowl, “tell me about yourself. We haven’t talked much about you.” 

The wine has loosened you up a bit, but you’re still a little bashful. He wants to know about  _ you?  _ You’re not exactly the most interesting character out there. It’s flattering, though. 

“Uh, well. I’m a receptionist, but you already knew that. Y’know, come to think of it, there’s nothing really noteworthy…”

Jed sets a bowl of strawberry cheesecake ice cream in front of you. Your favorite. 

“Dig deep.” He smiles, this one honest and encouraging, with no hint of humor. 

“Well,” you say, drawing in a deep breath, “I was born and raised here in Philadelphia, actually. Didn’t do many exceptional things in high school. Went to college at Penn State and came out with a degree that was pretty much useless in the real world.” 

“And what was that?”

You wrinkle your nose. “BA in art history.” 

“That’s actually really awesome.” he says, spooning up some ice cream. “What brought you to a receptionist position?” 

“Well, nobody really wants an art historian, and I really needed a job. Art history wasn’t even super my thing anyway. I mostly did it because I liked painting and it sounded more interesting than just a degree in art.” 

“There are a lot of places where that degree would be appreciated, y’know. You shouldn’t give up on it.” 

“Mm,” is all you can respond with. You don’t want to make this a sob story about how you didn’t chase your dreams. “Well, that’s pretty much life so far. I’m a receptionist, I live with a really cool roommate and her cat, and… I like long walks on the beach.” 

He laughs quietly at that one. “Very cool. I’m excited to get to know you more.” 

The conversation steers to work, then to Jed’s latest writing piece. The column including your company is just about finished, apparently, and handed off to another writer in the office. He thinks he’ll get to cover the Ghostface murders next, and he’s thrilled to work with the detectives on the case. There’s a gleam of excitement in his eye that makes you smile-- it’s rare you see anybody this ambitious. 

There’s a brief pause in conversation while you sip your drinks before you work up the courage to ask, “So, what about you?”

“Hm? Oh, as in, telling you about me?” He quirks his mouth, taps his fingers on the counter. “Um. Well, I had kind of a messy childhood. Always had a passion for writing. Did my best to stay out of trouble in school, got a bachelor’s in journalism, kind of crawled around the bottom of the barrel freelancing until the Inquirer picked me up. Not the most dramatic life story.” 

“I see,” you say gently. It sounds like he doesn’t really want to talk about it, and you definitely don’t want to push it. 

“I bounced around the foster care system a lot as a kid. Went through maybe a dozen homes.” he continues, his voice soft. “There really aren’t many people out there trying to take a child in with good intentions.” 

You open your mouth, then close it, trying to think of something meaningful to say. 

“Some of them kicked me out because I was a royal terror, though.” 

“Oh?” You cock your head. “How so?”

“Oh, you know,” he begins to count on his left hand, “Persistent bedwetting, lighting the cat on fire, squeezing hamsters’ guts out. The regular.” He turns to you with an expression that looks completely solemn and serious. 

Then bursts into laughter, and you find yourself giggling nervously too. 

“You should’ve seen the look on your face.” he says, slapping his knee. “No, I was just a really angry kid. And not many people know how to deal with that.” 

“Yeah.” you say quietly. “I know that feeling.” 

Jed continues to look at you while you eat your ice cream in silence.

“My parents weren’t really great to me growing up. Y’know,” you say, waving your spoon in the air, “even that’s an understatement. They were pretty shitty. Kinda made my life hell living in that house.”

“I got out of there the moment I turned eighteen. And they’re still together even though they basically hate each other and all they do is feed into each others’ toxicity and misery.” You shrug. “So yeah, I didn't have sunshine and roses as a kid, either.” 

There's a long pause between you that makes you nervous that you've overshared.

“I really admire that. That tenacity.” he says, reaching over to take one of your idle hands.

His touch is like  _ electricity _ , sending a shiver through your spine. You stare down at his hand, then at him. 

  
“Sorry. That was weird of me--” he says, but before he can pull away you grab onto it tighter. 

“No, you’re fine. Really.” you say, your voice unsteady. 

Jed remains still for a moment, his eyebrows raised, and then squeezes your hand and gets up from the counter. 

“Would you care to join me for a movie? I know it’s getting late, but…”

“I’d love to.” You smile, getting out of your chair perhaps a little too enthusiastically, because you elbow over your half-full glass of wine. 

It knocks over and spills pale pink liquid all over the countertop, which begins to drip down onto the tile. The glass rolls precariously over to the edge of the counter before you pick it up and set it upright. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry. I’ll clean it up--” you look around the kitchen for paper towels frantically. There’s… nothing, though, so you try to be useful by cupping your hand under the dripping liquid. 

“No worries. Let me take care of that.” Jed produces a roll of paper towels from  _ somewhere  _ and mops up the spill with mechanical efficiency. He takes your cupped hand into his and guides it to the sink, where he gives you a little nudge. “Make sure to rinse well. Moscato gets sticky.” 

He retrieves a bottle of cleaning solution and a clean cloth from the cabinet at your feet and sets to work on what’s left of the spill. It’s as if somebody’s turned a key in him and wound him up. He just scrubs and scrubs, sprays and then scrubs, until you’re pretty sure nothing alive exists on the counter anymore. 

“Okay,” he says finally, tossing the rag in the sink and the bottle back in the cabinet. “All good. What movie are we watching?” 

He must’ve spritzed a solid half-cup of lemon Pledge onto the countertop, it’s so strong in your nose now. It was your fault for spilling the wine, though. That marble looks pristine, and even the  _ floor  _ looks expensive. He was probably just trying to keep it from staining anything, and he’s not used to a mess since he lives alone...

“Right.” you say, fiddling with your necklace nervously. “I’m sorry, Jed. I could’ve helped clean it up--”

“It’s really nothing,” he says smoothly, with a smile. “Just a little wine. Marble is porous.”

“I’ll personally replace your countertops if they stain.” 

“You sure you make enough for that?”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I am a steadfast saver of money.”

“Well, I’m glad you’d blow it all on a nice new countertop for me.”

The two of you share a look and then burst into laughter. You follow him onto the couch, where you settle down politely next to him.

He reclines and yawns. “You never answered my question. What movies are you into?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may undergo some revision later. Hope you enjoyed! I always appreciate comments and kudos-- they inspire me to write more.
> 
> If you'd like to check out my artwork, Ko-Fi, and writing that isn't posted on AO3, you're welcome to visit my [Tumblr.](https://immodestmussorgskyy.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also-- I am looking for beta readers for this fic! If you'd like to be that beta reader, please shoot me a message on Tumblr!


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